Par Le Livre
by Lueminut
Summary: And Nate, Juliet's Romeo, was not Mihael's Nate, and his own cultured voice continued to dance about the rehearsal without so much as a glance above.


It was difficult to understand why Romeo's height was muchly compared to Juliet's. Perhaps they wanted to portray Juliet as the older woman, and Romeo as a boy with ludicrous dreams-- and he knew, then, that it wouldn't make much sense; Juliet was not sixteen, not blonde, and there was no implication of a willowy frame. Then again, theater never made much sense, and the instructor seemed to take pleasure upon watching his neck crane to his limit, in order to speak.

At the same time, Nate understood why Mihael was chosen for Juliet: If it hadn't been for his violent personality, and baritone voice to match, he would be the view of the typical princess. Fine golden thread adorned his neck in an inward flip that framed the delicate face in the most pleasant of ways; Everytime his fulsome lips parted, Mihael's lidded-gaze lifted from its pointed eyes into a striking statement: 'I'm saying something. Remember it.' It was a gaze in which Nate had even attempted before a mirror many times.

No avail.

Mihael set straight his own views of Juliet from the first meeting: He was repugnant at the thought of high heels, the idea of make-up was instantly shoved aside (and so was the student who had mentioned it), and he was also avert to the idea of olden corsets to hug his torso. A dress was dissatisfying, but endurable, and it was required to be loose; Pants would be worn underneath, and jewelry was uncalled for. While most of the students, especially the females, would've liked for the play to carry on as realistically as possible, Mihael... had his own way with the students, and easily knew right where to hit, and to bend others to his will.

Even Nate, who was a frail, but unfazed male, couldn't help but to become riveted by Mihael's mannerisms; How easily he turned heads by his sauntering walk, and drove them away by a pointed gaze. Even now, as the two stood upon the edge of the stage in hushed voices, Nate felt intimidated by such power. Mihael was two years seniour, but it had nothing to do with it; It was the way his voice had heightened, speaking fluent English with his foreign tongue with a certain airy, demure manner.

Mihael was nothing like Juliet, but they fit perfectly.

And Nate, Juliet's Romeo, was not Mihael's Nate, and his own cultured voice continued to dance about the rehearsal without so much as a glance above. It was an intelligent move of him as well, one expected from the 'baby' of the class, and yet above Mihael's astonishing grade-point average by the fractions of a point. Nate knew that, once he looked, he would be unable to return focus.

The English was simple, the plotline much too over-played-- Nate would've preferred the unseen theater, and the unknown poets of modern time. Mihael himself proclaimed that he was a sucker for the Classics, Classics consisting of mostly Shakespeare. While many would've liked to argue that Shakespeare wasn't the only English poet of olden times, their eyes lowered in obedience when Mihael, the ever-popular Mihael, spoke with the clarity of a preacher.

And right now, he was speaking sections of naivete; To kiss under first meeting was a foolish move, and even Nate (a boy who spent most of his life in the confines of his room, underneath piles of books) was aware of this. Romeo was a foolish boy, and Juliet was easily-coaxed-- if, perhaps, Romeo had been one of deeper intentions, the girl's modesty would be promptly ripped from her. Mihael wasn't Juliet, Mihael wasn't Juliet-- he was a male, and he was able to handle himself. Nate was not Romeo; He didn't crave the other's kiss, the other's virginity (or lack thereof; Nate wasn't sure of the elder's modesty), or the other's sweet assurances. He was simply fascinated with the blond's physical appearances, and this was it.

Hands reached to fiddle with candescent curls that shaped his boyish cheekbones, and Mihael frowned in response to the following sentences. "Let's get this over with," And this was signal for both to settle into character. With this, Mihael's figure straightened from its devil-may-care slouch to a dainty grace, pushing long limbs together in effeminate appearances. "Alright," When Nate finally found his voice, it was as soft as ever, perhaps even yielding in intentions; But Nate, as intimidated as he seemed by Mihael, was a strong, obstinate individual.

"_If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine_," Nate took a moment to swallow the following words in a thick swirl of salivation, clenching his eyes shut under shadow. Mihael simply looked on, unbothered by the younger male's modesty, and allowed him to continue. "_The gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims..._" Two blushing, quivering pilgrims in which were parted in lenient, inquisitive apprehension. "_Ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss._"

Instantly, Mihael picked up with a cultivated voice. Not the voice of a male attempting female, but the voice of a sophisticated woman, in comparison to Nate's fluctuant text. "_Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss._"

No. This speech of saints and the holy... Nate's fingertips wound forward to grasp the rosary rested at the neck of Mihael, clutching the thing tightly in his weak fist. To Mihael, breath escaped his throat in the most unpleasant (not to mention _unattractive_) manner, and he was caught between curiously asking why he had done such a thing, or shattering the boy's face so hard, that he would be thrown against the other side of the stage, between the comfort of Capulet and Tybalt. Yes, that would seem the better decision...

"Juliet, you're a dumbass."

"... _Pardon?_"

"You heard me." Nate's voice was as fluttering as his lips had been. "You're a thirteen year old girl, flirting with another fool. Do you even realize that what you're doing is leading yourself to a train-wreck? You're going to die for love, something so worthless--" And here, Mihael's pianist-fingers wound themselves about Nate's mouth, catching the boy by surprise.

"_Then have my lips,_" His plush mouth bared teeth that would, otherwise, be fearful. "_The sin that they have took._"

Nate took this sin with tip-toes, and secretly thought it queer that a male Catholic academy would allow such a play to take place. Shakespeare was a horrid poet, and the terms of olden theater always conflicted with the ways of the Lord-- But Mihael was the best of hypocrites and quite talented at performing sins; To which he could only ever respond with...

Their lips parted, and Nate found his uneven voice.

"_Give me my sin again._"


End file.
